Rules
by citigirl13
Summary: She loves her dad, even if she hates his rules. A look into Klaus and Hope's relationship in the future. One-shot.


**DISCLAIMER:**** I do NOT own **_**The Originals **_**or any of the characters**

* * *

**Rules**

* * *

There are always rules: rules of society, rules of order, rules at school and at home. Rules on the road, at the park, at church. Entirely separate rules for playing football, rugby, tennis, hockey. Rules for playing cards, for playing board games. For looking after animals.

Her dad's rules.

She knows what happens when you break the rules: people get hurt. They get upset. They die. So Cleo always follows the rules.

* * *

She didn't use to be Cleo Matthews. When she was born, she was Hope Mikealson, the first hybrid ever to be born; the first – _only_ – in the next generation of Mikealsons.

That's the problem.

* * *

She has been used to the rules. Her dad's never been an easy-going, caution-to-the-wind guy, and has constantly reminded her of the rules, ever since she was little:

Don't answer the door to anyone, ever.

Never take off that necklace, the heart-shaped one that she's had since she was a baby.

When it's him, always answer the phone. And keep an emergency phone on you at all times, in case the first one gets lost or runs out of battery.

Don't leave the house on your own.

Always tell him where you're going.

Don't lie to him. Ever.

* * *

But she does lie. Sometimes.

* * *

She got it, when she was younger. Her dad was the only one in her world, always looked out for her. Was the only person who would go so far with her, for her.

It's been harder as she's gotten older. For one thing, they always move around: Chicago, New York, small towns in Texas, the sunny beaches of California. He's even talked about going overseas for a few years. "Where would you like to go sweetheart?" he asks one evening, pulling her on his lap. "Italy?" He brushes the hair out of her eyes. "France? Spain?" He puts on a fake Spanish accent, and she laughs.

She likes it when her dad smiles. He tickles her, and she laughs harder. He smiles more.

But there are times when she wishes they could stay in one place. Where she would be able to unpack all her boxes, or put pictures up on her walls. Or maybe make a few permanent friends. Her father won't let her put her picture on any of the social network sites, so she always has to use corny logos; sometimes people she knows won't accept her friend requests because of it.

"You don't know who's watching you," he tells her.

He's right. She knows that.

She just wishes he wasn't.

* * *

Her life is simple: she wakes up, gets ready, and her dad drops her off at school. She hangs out with her friends, does her work, and then her dad picks her up from school. That's it.

He doesn't like her leaving. For a long time he didn't even let her go to school, until she was seven and practically begged him. He relented, finally, as long as she behaved and did what he told her.

"Why can't I go to Sara's party?" she'll ask. Or, "It's just homework club, Dad. I'm still at school."

"You can do your homework here," he always says. And he would flash her his cheeky smile and tell her that he had lived over a thousand years, that there was nothing he didn't know. And sometimes she would give a weak smile in return, and he would cup her chin with his hand and give her a kiss.

When she gets older, they fight.

"It's just one party! I'll have my phones on me, I promise I won't drink – you can pick me up and drop me off-"

"I said _no_, Cleo."

"I'll be fine Dad. No one is going to get me – I'll be _fine_-"

He would whirl round at her, his eyes wide. "And how do you know that? You have no idea when someone is coming for you until they're here." He would step towards her, and she could feel her stubbornness breaking under his hard gaze. "If I'm here, I can protect you. If I'm not, then you're gone." He clicks his fingers for emphasis. "That's it. And there's nothing I can do."

"She won't find me! I'm wearing the necklace, my magic's contained, she can't-"

"Dalia knows you're alive. That's enough for me."

She lets loose the tears. Sometimes that works with her dad. When she was little and she would cry, he would give out a sigh and pick her up, soothing her, and he would give in. Sometimes. "Daddy, _please_."

"No. That's final. Go to your room."

And she'll storm into her room and slam the door shut. When she had been younger, she had tried leaving via the window. But as soon as her feet touched the ground, her dad would be where she landed and drag her back inside. Always. So she doesn't bother now.

In the middle of the night, she'll hear him come into her room. She won't turn around, and he'll sit on the bed. He'll lift her up and plant a kiss on her forehead, pressing her against his chest. "I don't want to fight with you sweetheart," he murmurs.

"I just want to spend some time with my friends," she'll whimper.

"I know honey." And he lets sympathy hold for a moment, just long enough for her to soften. "But you can't."

* * *

He doesn't sleep very well, her father. He doesn't need to sleep a lot, being a vampire. He once told her that it's more mental relaxation he needs than anything else. When she sleeps in her own bed, she often wakes up when she hears him come in, checking on her. He can do it five or six times a night when he's struggling.

Most of the time she feels herself being lifted off her bed and into his. He'll tuck her under the covers and then curl up beside her, his arm left above her head, fingers just touching her hair. And she'll listen as his breathing grows regular, and sometimes, she swears, she can feel the point where he drops off to sleep; when the tension in his body finally lifts.

"Why do you have nightmares?" she once asked him.

He had been drawing. Then he paused. Sighed. Like he usually does when she asks him a question he doesn't want to answer.

"I get scared that you're gone," he had admitted to her. "I panic when I wake up and you're not there." He shrugged. "It's just easier if you're next to me."

It's hard to get mad at him, when he puts it like that.

She likes it best in the evenings with her dad. He doesn't like leaving her, even though he does every now and then. He's got "business" to deal with.

That's another rule: don't ask questions, especially ones you don't want to answer to.

But most of the time, they'll be together. Sometimes she'll be doing her homework while he paints. She's not sure whether she enjoys watching her dad work on his paintings. His face closes off, and she knows he's thinking, worrying, gone to a time before her. His drawings are gentler, and she likes flicking through his book. He's even kept one of her as a baby, a rough drawing of when she was just a few months old. There are more of her as time's gone on, usually when she's fast asleep or lying on the sofa, head turned towards the television.

She gets bored of staying in all the time. Her dad knows this. He tries to entertain her himself: letting her pick stupid board games he would never play in a million years, telling her stories about famous people in history, teaching her card games. He lets her pick the movies they watch, and most of the time she chooses stupid romcom films just to see if he'll watch them. To his credit he sits through every single one, though he narrates and complains. And sometimes they'll go out, see a film or eat somewhere nice, and she'll pretend that she doesn't feel him tense when she gets up to use the bathroom.

Those are the best times: when she's leaning against his shoulder, listening to the rain fall against the window, her dad playing with the ends of her hair. And she forgets they're on the run, forgets that his rules drive her insane. She feels like they're a proper family; feels like she wouldn't trade anything for it.

* * *

She says she doesn't miss her mother.

That's a lie.

She doesn't remember her, not really: just the vague impression of warm arms round her, of jasmine perfume and sweet flora scents. Of being bounced in her arms, of laughter and kisses. Sometimes if she screws her face up and thinks real hard, she can remember her mother's high voice, her fierce arms as they held her tight.

She doesn't like that feeling.

At one point, her dad got really mad when she asked about her. That was another rule: don't ask about your mother. But as she got older, she broke it more and more, enduring his anger. He would never tell Cleo her mother's name, but eventually he gave her a picture. She didn't ask why he still had one.

The only thing she has of her mother are her eyes. Her mother's eyes are the same dark brown, the same olive shape. She spends hours staring in the mirror, trying to find some detail that she can share with her mother. But her mother's hair is dark, while hers is bright Viking blonde, golden blonde, exactly like her father's; she has tanned skin, while Cleo's is fair. They don't smile the same way.

But she has her eyes.

She imagines that she's looking in the mirror now, thinking of her daughter.

She knows her father works to give her everything that she asks for: she had the best computer, the latest phones, the most expensive clothes and shoes. He has money. And he loves her. She knows she shouldn't want anything more than him.

But she thinks it would be nice, to have a mother – a _mom_. That would listen when she talked. That would be a sympathetic ear. That would maybe fight against her dad when he overruled her. Sometimes she can ignore that want, that deep pit inside her stomach.

And then she sees a cute boy in class.

Then she's in bed with cramps.

Then she's thinking about what it would be like to have kids.

She would never tell her dad that she misses her mom. He would look at her, his bright eyes shattered glass. He would be hurt, terribly hurt. Hadn't he given up everything for her? Hadn't he left everyone he loved behind in his effort to keep her safe?

But you can't replace a mom.

* * *

When she's sixteen, he finally lets her go out to a party. They're in Portland, near the pier, and a bunch of kids are going there to "hang out" later that night. He's in a good mood, planting a kiss on her forehead the second she enters the car, even letting her pick the music without complaining. So she thinks it's a good time to ask.

The second the words are out of her mouth though, he tenses. "Cleo," he warns.

"Dad, _please_. It's just a few kids. I'm sixteen years old Dad, and I've never been able to hang out with my friends besides school." She lowers her head, looking up at him with those dark brown eyes – sometimes that works. "I always do what you say. Can't you just let me out, this once?"

She can see the conflict on his face, staring out the car window. His hands are gripping the steering wheel tightly. He's never taken this long to decide.

"You can decide what I wear. And you can pick me up and drop me off. I promise I won't stay out late."

It feel much longer than a few seconds when he finally says, "Fine."

The word reverberates through her chest. "Really?"

"I said fine, didn't I?" He snaps the words, and she can tell he's pissed – at her for asking, at himself for giving in. So she sits back in her seat and keeps quiet, not daring to get him annoyed in case he changes his mind.

He's grumpy for the rest of the afternoon, making her change her outfit over and over again, shifting restlessly while he's trying to watch the television. He makes her charge both her phones, and goes over the rules as he drives her there. "Don't leave your friends," he tells her for the ninth time. "I'll pick you up at nine where I've dropped you off, so make sure you're there. If I call-"

"_Dad_-"

"-or text, answer it, okay? Otherwise I'll come and get you."

She forces a smile. Any answering back could result in him taking her home, and she's so close. "I'll be fine Dad."

He growls, but kisses her on her head before she gets out the car. "Nine o'clock, Cleo," he reminds her.

"I know Dad." She slams the door closes and walks towards her friends, trying to ignore how her father's car still hasn't moved.

After she meets them, gets a few hugs from girls, she casually turns. The car's gone.

* * *

He's given her two hours, and she savours every single second. For the first time she doesn't feel like a hybrid, or the daughter of a vampire, or a girl on the run. She just feels like an American teenager.

Her dad's texted her, of course. Her phone vibrates with another text. _Don't drink anything._

_I won't if you won't_, she texts back. She's joking, and her dad knows this. He texts back: _:-P I'm a thousand years old. I can handle my alcohol._ She grins, remembering the time he let her have some coke and malibu, and it didn't even taste like alcohol, and she had so much she got tipsy.

It occurs to her that she's being anti-social, reading through texts while with her friends. She lifts her head, and that's when she sees Tom gazing at her. She smiles at him. He's her biology partner, and helped her out because all this moving schools has made her miss some modules. He has brown hair, the sort that would go blonde in the summer. He has a nice smile.

Before she knows it, she's been drawn away from the crowd with him. They're leaning against a building, and suddenly he's leaning in close. She pauses, thoughts flicking through her head. She's never been kissed before, and she's not quite sure how to do it. But his lips are soft against hers, and somehow she seems to know what she's doing.

It's strange, being kissed. It's like something's wrong with you, in the best possible way: your hands tremble a little, your entire body heats up; you feel breathless, and you can't quite gather your thoughts, always slipping away from you.

She likes it.

They kiss for a little while. Looking back, she remembers her phone buzzing in her pocket, but she ignores it. That's another thing that happens when you're kissing: you get absorbed in it.

Finally he pulls away and she opens her eyes. Even though his face is only a short distance away from hers, she doesn't look at it; instead her eyes are instantly drawn over his shoulder. To her father's face.

She feels the entire world still, with bated breath as it – and she – waits for her father's next move. Because what's running through her is another rule, one that is unspoken but nonetheless the most important:

You are my world. I am your world.

There is no room for anyone else.

It's like being hit by a wave, and the entire force shoves her backwards. She doesn't get hurt though, even when her head falls back. That's when she knows it's her father; he would never let her be harmed, even by himself. When she opens her eyes she sees that he has pinned Tom against the wall.

She wants to cry out, and it's only remembering that the normal world doesn't – _can't_ – know about vampires, that she swallows it down. She sees Tom's face – mouth open, eyes wide and searching – and she takes a step towards them. But before she can reach them – before she can take breath – she hears the snap. Her mouth drops open, tears instantly jumping to her eyes. Tom's body crumbles to the floor.

She lifts her eyes. Her dad turns round, and she can see his own are cold.

* * *

She cries all the way home. Her father doesn't speak. He's staring straight at the road, not so much as glancing at her. She wants him to look at her. She wants him to feel bad.

As soon as they get in the house, he bolts the door. "Go to your room."

"Fuck you."

She sees him freeze. She's never spoken like that to him before. After all, she always follows the rules.

"What did you say to me?" he asks. His voice is like smoke, soft and subtle, but ultimately a warning.

"How could you?" She looks at him, tries to remember the man that makes a face out of pancakes and bacon when she's sick; but all she can see is the vampire in him, the killer. "Why did you do that?"

"I was angry."

"_You were-_"

"You weren't answering your phone Cleo! I was worried."

"I was fine!"

"But I didn't know that. And then I find you, kissing some stupid boy – who, by the way, was probably only after one thing-"

She puts a hand in front of her eyes when she thinks of Tom: his goofy smile, his brown eyes, the freckles across his face. She had wanted to kiss him ever since they came to Portland. "You don't know that."

He growls. "Well it doesn't matter now, does it?" She remains standing, and he turns and goes to pour himself a glass of whisky. "There'll be no more parties from now on, not if that's how you're going to behave."

"I'm your daughter, not your prisoner!"

His head snaps round. "I am protecting you."

"From what? From having a life?"

"For – if Dalia finds you-"

"I know, okay, I _know_." Her voice rises, and she has to take a deep breath to remain calm. Her father's face is swimming in front of her. "I don't want this life anymore."

Even though she's said it quietly, her dad freezes like she's yelled them; like she's hit him in the face. "That's too bad," he says. He steps towards her, but this time she looks right up at him. "Because you're not the one in charge here."

"It's my life."

"But you're my daughter, and you're sixteen. So for now, you're my responsibility, and what I say goes." He points a finger down the hall. It's shaking ever so slightly. "Go to your room. _Now_." The last sentence comes out as a hiss, a snake preparing to strike.

She slams the door so hard the entire house rattles. Falling on her bed, she sobs.

She knows she loves her father, the man that brought her up, the man that would kill for her. That loves her. That they will always love each other, through anything.

But there's a part of her that knows that she hates him too.

* * *

**A/N: **A few things:

1) I changed Hope's name to Cleo, simply because I just really don't like the name Hope. It just seems overused, though I will admit that it's grown on me. Also, it fitted the story that Klaus would change her name, so she wouldn't be found.

2) I hope it doesn't seem like I hate Klaus, because I don't; I actually have a lot of sympathy for his character (he's my favourite in the series) and I ship Klayley so hard. But because he's so paranoid, I can see this happening.

* * *

**Hours to make. Seconds to comment. **

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


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